| And old man stood at a canvas, deciding what he’d paint that day,
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| When he was found by his grandson, who was on a brief holiday.
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| The old man he was distracted at the young boy’s request on that day,
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| And tears welled up inside him when he heard his grandson say:
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| «Paint me a picture of Ireland, of things you remember the most:
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| Its mountain land, its valleys, its islands, and its coast.
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| Paint me a picture of Ireland, of things your mem’ry still holds—
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| Something to show my grandchildren, a glimpse of the green, white, and gold.»
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| The old man he had left Ireland when the famine was still in its prime,
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| Leaving a dying people to survive a race against time.
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| He landed like millions of others in a country that opened its door,
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| But he never forgot his homestead, …(?), a fam’ly and more.
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| «Paint me a picture of Ireland…»
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| Now an old man lay dying, with his grandchildren all round his bed.
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| He wants to tell them a story about the picture there o’er his head.
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| «My grandfather painted it for me when I was much younger than you.
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| This is where he came from, and this is where your roots are too.
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| «This is a picture of Ireland, of things that he talked of the most:
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| Its mountains and its valleys, its islands and its coast.
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| This is a picture of Ireland, of stories he often told.
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| He was so proud to be Irish, wrapped up in the green, white, and gold.
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| Oh, he was so proud to be Irish, wrapped up in the green, white, and gold. |